George back to his Best

They have been dusting down the obituaries of George Best for some time now, but the pictures of him taken in Mustique say they can put the obits away again. Thank goodness. George Best has an important role to play in the midfield of the British psyche. He is the last representative of an uncynical age. Our nation was genuinely cheered by him; in his freakish, silken talents people took uncomplicated and un-jealous pleasure. (Compare that with the ambivalent and acidic attitude towards sporting stars now.)

You can see why George was the David Beckham of his day. At 57, he looks better than is decent or legal, particularly for someone who has traded one liver for another. Pushing himself so hard to get back into shape, Best has raised the bar for every fiftysomething male who thinks he can get away with a midlife paunch.

George always had charm and courage to spare and the defiant holiday snaps seem to say: "I'm not finished yet." When he was a lad playing for Manchester United, they said he had one of the best sliding tackles in football. Well, for now, he seems to have stopped death itself in his tracks, got the ball off the bastard and is racing back upfield.

You cannot ignore this, Mrs Hodge

One night, when Kevin Lewis was six years old, he awoke with an unfamiliar sensation. Someone was holding him. The "someone" turned out to be a fireman who had come to evacuate Kevin's family. Years later, the boy would remember that night - not because he had been afraid, but because he had been touched by an adult who meant him no harm. "I'd never experienced anything so gentle or caring before," writes Kevin in his devastating new book, The Kid.

Kevin isn't the sort of man to write a book because he wasn't the sort of boy who learned to read. He was brought up during the Seventies on a council estate near Croydon. In order to be able to do homework, you need a home.

But where the Lewises lived was barely a house; a chaotic, cruel place, the air was salted with the urine of the younger children who were not allowed to come downstairs to use the toilet in the night.

Kevin, the eldest, was a bedwetter, but he learned to suppress the instinct to cry out in the dark for his mother. If he ever forgot, Gloria Lewis - all six, snarling feet of her - would smack him on his wet skin. ""You dirty f****** c***," she'd scream.

The little boy learned not to cry out. He would curl up into a ball and try to protect his face: "Sorry, Mummy. Sorry, Mummy. Please no, Mum." Please, no, Mum - I can't think of a story that is more unreadably sad than The Kid, or a story that it feels more essential to go on reading. If Kevin Lewis and his five siblings had to endure such a childhood in our country in our lifetime, then the least we can do is listen to what he has to say.

Eventually, Kevin was taken out of hell and put into a home in Sussex where he was introduced to regular food, clean clothes and human kindness. One afternoon, he feared the worst when the lights dimmed, but his carers were just bringing in a surprise birthday cake. His first cake and first party.

Two years later, the authorities returned the blossoming boy to his vile parents. Kevin escaped again and fell into the life of crime and self-destructiveness that is the fate of so many youngsters whose happiness has been murdered in infancy. The Kid should be a set text for every MP, and particularly for Margaret Hodge, who has just been made Minister for Children.

What can Mrs Hodge learn from Kevin Lewis? That spending vast amounts supporting failing youngsters in secondary school is leaving it too late. Kids like Kevin Lewis need a full-time nursery school place where responsible adults can spot tell-tale bruises, a place where they learn there are grown-ups who speak, not just spew out abuse, and that the hand coming towards you can be for a hug, not a slap.

Right now, only two per cent of all the money spent on kids up to the age of 19 goes on SureStart, the scheme to help our most defenceless citizens. This is criminal stupidity - or stupidity that leads to crime.

A US study showed that a good start will see a child right through its life. By the time the kids were 30, every dollar spent on their nursery years saved the state seven later: they went to college, they owned homes, they seldom drew benefits or took up that peculiar British hobby of standing on bridges, blank-faced, hurling bricks at cars.

Kevin Lewis says he knew he had to write his book when he looked at the face of his newborn son and was so afraid that the ugliness in his past would repeat itself. He has broken that cycle of pain and rage that disfigures so many young Britons. I hope our elected officials can find a fraction of his courage.

Milburn's brave choice

Alan Milburn may be the first man to walk away from power because he really does want to spend more time with his family. I think, though, that I detect the hand of Dr Ruth Briel, the mother of Milburn's young boys and a consultant psychiatrist.

She probably took the view that her partner's job was exacting too high a price on their family.

In modern relationships, where both parents have jobs, the only way things work is if each person does their share. Unless you want the mother in a gibbering heap, that is.

I have interviewed fathers who think that the weekend is their "time off ". Their women, who also go out to work are not meant to have time off because motherhood is a 24/7 job, isn't it?

Well, plenty of working mums are sick of being doormats and make the calculation that, if hubby was out of the picture, no one would really notice the difference. Except there'd be less chest hair in the bath.

Given the choice between spending 140 hours a week with strategy documents on foundation hospitals and an excellent woman, Alan Milburn picked the girl.

That may make him too sane to hold high office - but his family should count themselves very lucky.

All mouth and no trousers off

In the German Big Brother, they have sent out for the morning-after pill. In the French house, the sister of Royal nanny Tiggy Legge-Bourke has been evicted after giving the French lessons in Anglo-Saxon rumpy-pumpy.

Meanwhile, in the monastic haven that is the British BB house, the closest we've got to indecent exposure is Federico dressed in a pink leotard with a talkingmonkey sporran.

In other words, it's the usual British mix of salaciousness and prudishness. We have the most prurient press in the world, but when push comes to shove, we lose that shovin' feeling. Now there is a plan to evict two of the dullsters this Friday, and bring a new person in. But who?

The only species of Briton who is guaranteed to mate in captivity, and so save the honour of her country, comes from SW3. Centuries of corridor-creeping will bear fruit as some game Georgina jumps onto Ray and rides for England. Look, Big Brother, if you want sex in your housey, there's only one solution: you need nobs on.

No-win Cherie

No one has more admiration than me for Cherie Blair's ability to juggle, but what can the poor woman be thinking of, taking on the high-profile role as a roving ambassadors for London's bid to stage the 2012 Olympics? After Cheriegate she should have done herself a favour and lain in a darkened teepee with Carole Caplin for a few healing years.

There is tremendous latent hostility towards Cherie. If London loses the Olympics, it will somehow be her fault. If London wins, it will also be Cherie's fault, because a successful woman shouldn't rub people's noses in it with another triumph.